


wish i could pretend i didn't need you

by iPhone



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/F, Organized Crime, Romance, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25405042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iPhone/pseuds/iPhone
Summary: Beca Mitchell is born into a life of organized crime, directionless and despondent. Then she meets Chloe Beale.
Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell
Comments: 82
Kudos: 167





	1. just want to feel something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this is me starting yet another multi-chap. Sorry not sorry. Tags and characters will be updated as they come.
> 
> I will say that I've always loved ["Stolen"](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9509046/1/Stolen), which is an incredible fic centered around organized crime with an amazing sequel. In no way do I think I will ever be able to live up to that, but this is a little AU that Chloe and I have been bouncing around with all our other AUs and it felt like a fun exercise. As always, open to ideas/thoughts. Very open.
> 
> Fic title from "Senorita". Chapter title from "feel something" by Bea Miller. Unbeta'd except for Chloe reading this and then yelling at me. Apologies for a part that might have been cut out—if you refresh, it should be back in place.
> 
> yes, yell at me on [tumblr](https://darby-carter.tumblr.com/). I know I'm not good at writing drama. BUT THERE ARE, I PROMISE, UNDERLYING REASONS FOR THINGS THAT HAPPEN.

It is a Friday night.

Beca finds herself at her favorite bar. It is an odd hybrid between a karaoke hangout for people who are too drunk to realize how bad they’re doing and a lowkey, dimly-lit hang-out spot where she can be herself without her usual cares and concerns.

“You can go,” Beca says pointedly to her driver. He raises an eyebrow at her. “Seriously,” she promises. “I just want to be alone. I’ll call you if I…” she sighs. “Why am I explaining this to you? Please, just go,” she begs. She hates feeling like a child who needs a constant babysitter. She hates feeling _watched_ and followed, even if it is for her own safety like everybody claims.

It’s tiring, that’s what it is.

Without waiting to see whether the car leaves, Beca turns to quickly make her way inside her safe haven. The bar downtown. A bar with music and drinks and a semblance of normalcy in a city that refuses to define the term ‘normal’ without a million asterisks.

A normal Friday night in Los Angeles.

She likes the music that wraps around her the moment she enters the bar. Barely decipherable because of how loud the bar is. It is the perfect way to both lose herself and be lost in the crowd and the atmosphere of a typical Friday night.

Beca knows exactly what she’s looking for. It’s been a while since she’s had one night of mindless, anonymous sex. She doesn’t think herself too picky, just _selective_ about the kind of woman she can find. Nobody to get attached to, at least not for more than a couple trysts. Nobody too curious.

In her line of work, dating is overrated and entirely unnecessary.

Beca starts at the bar. A quick scan up and down the wooden surface, she can see only completely full drinks and people with dates of their own. The thought makes her scoff—makes her order a drink immediately, then proceed to down it quickly. With the burn in her throat and renewed energy, she quickly scans the crowded space, eyes trained to pick up on significant movements and significant people.

It is then, with a second drink in hand, that Beca spots _her_. Her eyes catch on this stranger’s hair—the pretty red hair, glinting under shoddy lighting—before her eyes are drawn to the stranger’s easy smile. She appears to be alone as well, or at least, she does for another minute longer before she is accompanied by two other young women. Beca tilts her head, wondering if she has a chance at all, with this stranger. A pretty, kind-looking stranger. With friends, Beca presumes.

“Can I buy you another drink?” Beca asks, slipping into the empty barstool next to the stranger.

Clear blue eyes turn to her, surprised. “I didn’t even hear you behind me.”

“I’d be surprised if you heard anything with how loud this music is blasting.”

A flash of white teeth. She leans closer to Beca, as if she is about to share a secret. “I don’t mind it. I like things loud,” she whispers loudly, adding an exaggerated wink to punctuate her statement.

Beca gapes at her new companion. “I mean. That’s…” She clears her throat, momentary lapse dissipating quickly when the beautiful redhead shifts closer. “So...drink?” she asks, quickly changing the subject. She finds this woman’s personality endearing to say the least, if not a little _out there_ , but Beca thinks she can manage.

“Okay,” the woman agrees. “But you have to join me. Two margaritas, then?”

That’s manageable. Beca orders the two drinks, keeping her eye on the woman out of the corner of her eye. She’s stunned by how easily this woman _smiles_ , but she somehow manages to do it without coming off as completely insane. Maybe a little, Beca muses, but she’s not there to judge.

“What’s your name?” Beca asks, keeping her tone light and just the right amount of disinterested. She slides a drink to the woman, smiling when fingers brush against her own in a clear display of interest.

The stranger giggles, a sound so light and airy that it almost breaks Beca’s resolve. She doesn’t crack. She tries not to, at least.

“Chloe,” she replies, finally. She brushes her hand up the front of Beca’s jacket, brushing against the leather. “I like your jacket.”

The boldness makes Beca swallow her drink a bit too early. “That’s all?” she rasps.

Chloe bites her lip, pretending to think about it. “I mean. Maybe I had more to say. But I noticed you looking at me about an hour ago. You finally made your way over here.” At Beca’s immediate blush and flustered stutter, Chloe pats her jacket again with a giggle before she draws away, sipping innocently at her drink. “What’s your name?”

“Beca.”

“Beca,” Chloe repeats. “I like that.”

To Beca’s immense relief, Chloe doesn’t ask for a last name, nor does she offer a last name of her own. Beca eases into the conversation, relaxing against the bar as Chloe begins to rope her into her orbit. Beca doesn’t even realize it.

* * * * *

“I’m not from around here,” Chloe admits.

“ _Here_ as in...Los Angeles or _here_ as in California?”

“Um…” Chloe shifts closer to Beca, comfortable in their little corner of the bar, away from noise and nosy eyes. “Both, I guess? I moved here for a job after finishing school on the other side of the country.”

Beca pretends to gag. “School. Bleh. What’d you study?”

“I’m a vet,” Chloe says with twitch of her lips. “What do you do? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve bought all my drinks tonight. I’m not complaining.”

Beca laughs, but she finds that she has no real excuses. “I…” Beca trails off, unsure what she can say exactly. “I’m between jobs,” she says evasively. “But I used to work for my dad. After I finished with the whole school thing.” Not quite a lie. She currently isn’t on any jobs for her father, though she’s sure she’ll have something come up over the next couple of weeks. Also not a lie—she _did_ finish a degree at her father’s behest.

“You strike me as a musician,” Chloe says suddenly. She reaches for Beca’s hand, playing with her fingers. “Talented fingers.”

Beca holds back her laugh. Chloe is forward, which is refreshing. That was a move if she had ever seen one. She relaxes for a second, then Beca watches Chloe for a long moment, letting the slow heat spread through her body at the point which their hands are touching.

“What?” Chloe asks, shifting closer still. “Am I wrong?”

“A little,” Beca admits. “But I…” She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says quickly. “Just a little off.” She glances at their hands, admiring the slender lines of Chloe’s fingers and the softness of her hand. “But...you might not be wrong about other things.” Beca waits for a beat before leaning in, wondering if Chloe will meet her halfway.

Chloe does. Their first kiss is explosive—Beca immediately surges closer, pulling herself further into Chloe’s orbit. Chloe’s lips are impossibly soft, undeniably pliant, and gentle.

* * * * *

It is a Friday night. Nothing out of the ordinary thus far for Beca—her first night off in months.

Her first night off in months and she is being pressed against the wall outside an apartment complex, Chloe’s tongue in her mouth doing absolutely sinful things. And they have, as far as Beca is concerned, a good few hours. But never all night—Beca makes it a point not to stay; she makes it a point not to linger. It is, however, perhaps, maybe, a little difficult to think of anything else at the moment, as the night progresses.

And it _has_ progressed. Beca barely manages to take stock of her surroundings, simply allowing Chloe to navigate them into her apartment with ease. She would have never thought Chloe would freely offer up her apartment so quickly, but as they had continued kissing at the bar, Beca found that both their resolves cracked rather quickly. In short order, Chloe divests Beca of her clothes and shoves her onto her bed with a glint.

That had been a mere few minutes ago, both of them too desperate and too aroused to allow for much more else.

“Fuck,” Beca moans. “Fuck, you’re so good at that.” She plants a hand against the headboard, wincing at the strain in her arm. With her free hand, she grabs Chloe’s hair, grinding her hips down, eyes nearly crossing at the rough sensation of Chloe’s tongue against her clit. She gasps with each imprecise stroke between her legs. She wants nothing more than to feel Chloe inside her entirely—fingers, tongue, she’s not picky—but she finds it difficult to articulate more than low, drawn-out moans.

Here, she barely knows this woman’s last name—barely knows her own last name, but she finds that she does not care. Not when Chloe’s hands lock onto her thighs with an iron grip and she begins to sharply flick her tongue over Beca’s sensitive clit. Over and over—Beca cries out, gripping the headboard to the point of injuring her hand, but she does not care. She lets out a groan—somewhere between a groan and gasp—and a string of curses before she is trembling and all but collapsing to the side. Her orgasm ripples through her, like the most pleasurable of waves taking up the spaces in her body. She shudders, tensing her thighs together as Chloe maneuvers them so they are both lying face to face on the bed. Beca tilts her head to receive Chloe’s kiss, which Chloe presses eagerly against her lips. Chloe is all full lips, tongue, and passion, something which only sends heat coiling through Beca’s body again.

As if reading her mind, Chloe pulls back, tongue swiping against her lower lip as she does so. Her hand trails down Beca’s stomach, gently pushing between her legs. “Again,” she rasps, nuzzling her nose against Beca’s. “I want to see you come.” Another kiss, this time with a tug to Beca’s lip between even, blunt teeth. “Didn’t really get to—” another kiss “—see it before.”

And, yeah. Okay. Beca can do that. She nods, pulling Chloe in for another kiss. At around this point, she’d be figuring out an escape from this stranger’s bed and room. But she finds that she _wants_ to stay; she wants to figure out how to make Chloe scream her name or at least make sure that Chloe doesn’t forget their night together.

It feels imperative that she does so.

She is momentarily stricken in the best of ways by Chloe’s hand navigating fully between her legs. She tilts her hips up eagerly, already wet and wanting for Chloe’s fingers. That one orgasm had hardly been enough and whether she chooses to blame it on the alcohol or the fact that she hasn’t been laid in at least four months, she knows that she needs Chloe _now_. She needs Chloe’s deft, talented fingers inside her.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” Chloe murmurs, voice thick with her own arousal. “Just say something—tell me—”

Beca shakes her head. “No, don’t stop. More.”

Chloe nods, pleased by Beca’s receptiveness and begins slowly dragging her fingers around Beca’s slick cunt, gently coaxing her into an even more heightened state of arousal. Beca wraps an arm around Chloe’s shoulder, pulling her closer still. She traces the top of Chloe’s spine, marvelling at each bump and ridge before she tires and traces the smooth muscles across her back, pleased by the shiver that she feels ripple through Chloe’s body.

Chloe shifts so she hovers over her, covering her body with her own. Beca clutches at Chloe’s back, sighing pleasurably. “Mm— _fuck_ ,” Beca murmurs, back arching when Chloe’s fingers sink inside her without preamble. She groans at how full she feels—had it really been that long?—and immediately craves more of that sensation. “Go,” she urges. “More, please, Chloe.”

“You like that,” Chloe whispers, breath hot against Beca’s ear. “You’re so tight, Bec—” the nickname falls so easily from her lips. It sends an unexpected flash through Beca, renewed arousal and all. “I’m going to make you remember my name.”

Beca isn’t entirely sure she would have ever forgotten, regardless of the circumstances.

* * * * *

Beca learns, fairly quickly, what it is that makes Chloe tick. She learns exactly where to kiss and nip to make Chloe sigh. She learns where to suck to make Chloe whimper and moan. She learns exactly how to curl her fingers inside Chloe to make her scream her name with unabashed pleasure.

She learns all about the physicality of this woman, but she cannot, for the life of her, figure out why she seems to crave more. In her sleep-deprived, alcohol-induced haze, she fumbles through the darkness of her own consciousness even as she continues to kiss Chloe’s neck and her chest.

She wants so much more.

“Beca,” Chloe rasps, pulling her back to the present. “Oh, Beca, that feels amazing.” Hands press on the top of her head, urging her downwards towards where Chloe needs her most—the place where she is wettest and where she aches for Beca.

 _It’s nice,_ Beca thinks, with a small moan of her own, _to be so wanted._

* * * * *

Beca doesn’t remember falling asleep. She remembers Chloe’s lips against her own, the press of Chloe’s lips against her inner thigh. She remembers what it had felt like to press her fingers inside Chloe for the first time—the strain in her arm as she attempted to keep up with Chloe’s enthusiasm for her fingers.

She has never done this before. Sleeping over at a stranger’s apartment or house. Staying the night.

It’s new.

It’s also new, feeling a warm arm draped around her middle possessively. The curves pressing up and down her back. The mild discomfort of skin against skin beneath the chill of the air conditioning because their blanket was kicked halfway down the bed.

All of it feels so _new_ and it makes Beca want to run and yet, she stays. She stays, gets even more comfortable in Chloe’s bed, and decides to sleep for another couple of hours.

It’s nice, feeling like she has nowhere to be.

Sleepily, from behind Beca, Chloe nuzzles into her neck with a degree of comfort that would alarm Beca normally. She nuzzles into Beca with sleepy care, clearly somewhere between being awake and asleep like Beca is herself.

The soft press of her nose and lips against Beca’s skin is comfortable. Like she has been there all her life.

* * * * *

It is a Saturday morning.

When Beca wakes again, it is due to the ray of sunlight shining almost directly across her eyes. She groans, lifting her arm to cover her eyes.

“Morning,” Chloe’s voice says, clear as day from the kitchen area. Beca blinks, lifting her head slightly. Her heart pounds as she takes in the reality of the situation: she had slept over—she had stayed overnight. She had broken her one rule about one-night-stands. “You’re up,” Chloe continues cheerily, clearly unaware of Beca’s inner turmoil.

“Um...yeah. What time is it?” Beca groans. “Good morning,” she adds hastily, as to not be completely rude.

“Just after nine. You were sleeping like a log, so I got some coffee and breakfast.” Chloe moves towards the bed from the kitchen, making Beca fully aware of the spacious studio space and open layout of Chloe’s apartment. “Hi,” Chloe murmurs, sitting on the edge of the bed. She helps Beca sit up, handing her a bagel. “Hope you like cream cheese.”

“I...I do,” Beca whispers. She sits up, surprised by how comfortable she feels baring herself to Chloe after their night together. Chloe smiles pleasantly at her, clearly delighted that Beca is receptive to breakfast. “Thank you,” she adds, sincerity in her tone. She doesn’t say it aloud, but it has been a while since she’s enjoyed any form of breakfast in bed, let alone a substantial breakfast of any kind that wasn’t an extra large iced coffee for the road.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Chloe asks. “I can drive you.”

“You have a car?” Beca asks, surprised. At Chloe’s raised eyebrow, she laughs awkwardly, attempting to brush it off. “No, I just meant—I don’t know. Most people our age don’t really have...a car,” she finishes lamely.

“Oh? How do you know I’m not like twenty years older than you?”

Beca tugs at the sheets nervously. “I guess,” Beca stammers, pink tainting her cheeks. “I guess...I guessed,” she murmurs slowly.

Chloe laughs, settling even further on the bed, stretching out. “I’m kidding, I’m twenty-seven. I just turned twenty-seven.”

“Oh, okay. I’m twenty-five.”

“Nice to meet you, Beca, twenty-five,” Chloe announces. She sends a mock-salute towards Beca, playful smile still playing on her lips.

Beca lets some tension ease from her body. She isn’t sure where the ease comes from, but she feels incredibly comfortable talking to Chloe. Incredibly open, despite how vulnerable she feels being significantly underdressed while Chloe lounges in her leggings and button-up shirt across from her. Still, she feels the same undeniable attraction to this woman—the same attraction from the night before. It lingers, hot in her chest, drifting into her belly.

She doesn’t do this. Not usually. Not ever.

“Mitchell,” Beca says quietly while Chloe fiddles with her phone. Her voice causes Chloe to look up. “My name is Beca Mitchell.”

Chloe’s smile is incredibly radiant, enough to light up the whole room. More than the sun itself, creeping its way past the half-open curtains. Behind her head, as if the universe is further highlighting Chloe’s mere presence in Beca’s life—a miracle of sorts, if anything—there is a halo of sunlight, lighting up red strands like the tiny sparks and flames Beca feels rippling through her body. Chloe clears her throat. “We have all morning, Beca Mitchell. If you’re up for it, that is.”

“All morning?” Beca questions. She is sure wonder is written all over her face.

“I...want to get to know you. If that’s okay.”

 _Oh_. Beca swallows. Chloe’s eyes are even _more_ blue than Beca remembers. She is unable to look away, even for a moment, but she isn’t sure that she would even want to, not when she is so incredibly captivated by Chloe. “That’s okay…” Beca finishes by nibbling on her bagel, unsure what else Chloe wants her to say or do. She finds that she is not afraid of these completely unchartered waters, so long as she gets to dive in, head-first, with Chloe.

Chloe rises from the bed so she can sit closer to where Beca is reclining. Slowly, she leans in, eyes watching carefully for anything that Beca might be resistant to—any indication that Beca doesn’t want this.

Beca has never had a morning after—not one that mattered, at least. She is so riveted by the slow way Chloe leans in to kiss her; she is so enthralled by the way Chloe occupies all the spaces that she didn’t know she had—all the capacities she didn’t know existed within her in that moment.

Like a dam breaking, an unexpected surge passes over Beca. She reaches up quickly, pulling Chloe in to close the rest of the distance between them.

“Beale,” Chloe whispers against her lips. Her free hand glides up Beca’s body before she pries her bagel from her hand and sets it aside.

“What?” Beca asks, distracted by Chloe’s wandering hand.

“My name is Chloe Beale.”

 _Nice to meet you,_ Beca thinks. It is such a pleasant, reassuring thought that it fills her with something more than her usual existential dread.

It is warm.

Gentle.

She thinks of nothing else for the rest of the morning, simply intent on getting to know Chloe Beale beyond just the feeling of her skin beneath her fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for a part that might have been cut out—if you refresh, it should be back in place.
> 
> You can say hi to me on [Tumblr](https://darby-carter.tumblr.com/).


	2. have you seen a sunset turn into a sunrise?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One week later, Beca and Chloe go on their "first" date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please feel free to yell at me on [Tumblr](http://darby-carter.tumblr.com/). I understand that some people might not find this fic entirely realistic, sorry about that.
> 
> Chapter title from "What Am I" by Why Don't We.

_“Beca, piano is about precision, of course. But also...a delicate touch. Precision and gentleness all at once. Watch.”_

_Beca watches carefully, eyes trained on the keys her mother presses. Very intently, she tracks each motion, making sure to memorize the melody._

_“Understand?” her mother asks, lifting a hand to sweep a strand of Beca’s hair behind her ear._

_Beca furrows her brow in concentration before she places her hands on the keys and mimics exactly what her mother had down, copying the melody precisely. When she finishes, she beams up at her mother who smiles at her with pride and a little bit of another, then-unidentifiable emotion._

* * * * *

Beca glances at her phone for the tenth time since she reached the corner of the block she had agreed to meet Chloe at.

Radio silence from her father. He _must_ be in a good mood. Better for Beca if he is. She has been riding a wave of being nervous over her first _date_ with Chloe. Chloe Beale, a twenty-seven year-old vet with a heart of gold and a devastating smile.

The whole _date_ thing—that pretty much came out of nowhere, smashing into Beca with the force of a thousand sledgehammers. Any ensuing breathlessness, however, turned out to be breathless excitement and anticipation. She wasn’t...opposed to going on a date. She wasn’t opposed to seeing Chloe again, despite telling herself that she was just attracted to Chloe on a physical level and only that.

After that first night—that first morning—they had exchanged numbers, content on simply staying in touch—at least Beca is sure that was how she had phrased it. She had caught the lingering dash of disappointment on Chloe’s face as she had slowly slid from the bed. Whatever had caused her to partake in her next actions, well she totally blamed her lingering hangover (nonexistent hangover), but she had kissed Chloe again.

It was just...that time of year, she told herself. Continues to tell herself.

“Stupid,” she mutters to herself, now absentmindedly tapping through her phone. Her last text from Chloe—a cheerful _On my way!_ —stares innocently back at her. Is she _dating_ this woman now? Are they girlfriends? Is there—should Beca have brought flowers?

Huge oversights everywhere. Red flags everywhere. Beca runs through all the possible options in her mind, thoughts of her father so far out of her mind.

Ultimately, worst case scenario: Beca had, quite simply put, been unable to resist Chloe Beale that night and she had found that she needed the company more than anything. She rarely found connections with other people, let alone strangers. It was something ingrained in her from the beginning—something that had been impressed upon her as a child, then as a teenager, and continuously as an adult.

_Don’t become attached._

“I hope I’m not late.”

Beca startles, quickly putting her phone away as she turns to greet Chloe. She stops—freezes—and for once, finds her mind going blank. No thoughts about her calendar. No thoughts about missed phone calls. No thoughts about missed shipments. No thoughts about her father, obligations, or meetings.

Just one thought: “Chloe, hi. Wow. _Hi_.”

Chloe’s hair, carefully curled and flowing over her shoulders, ruffles in the wind. She is wearing a denim jacket over a black shirt and black jeans which Beca can tell hug her hips and thighs beautifully. Somehow, despite the simplicity, Beca feels underdressed in her own nice sweater and jeans.

“That’s a good wow, right?” Chloe’s voice holds a teasing lilt to it, like she knows exactly why Beca is so flustered. She probably does, Beca muses. Beca wonders if they can kiss—wonders why she has all kinds of knowledge about various weapons, business transactions, and how to get the deal she wants, but none—well, _hardly_ any knowledge—about how to handle a _normal_ first date with a beautiful woman.

She goes with the first thing on her mind.

“You’re…” Beca swallows, eyes tracking down Chloe’s body. “You’re beautiful.”

“I…” Chloe blushes, shy for once under Beca’s gaze. “Thank you.” Beca holds her breath, wondering if Chloe will kiss her; wondering if that would be odd. Chloe smiles, leaning in to press a kiss against her lips, allowing a brief moment of indulgence when Beca’s tongue sweeps across her lower lip, almost politely. It makes Chloe giggle, causing her to draw back to Beca’s disappointment.

“What?” Beca asks. She licks her lips unconsciously, taking a step back. It is so different seeing Chloe like this in the drifting sunset and on a public walkway, without the shadow of night and alcohol, all tangled up in their bedsheets. “Did I do something?”

“Nothing,” Chloe promises, reaching out to gently tuck a curl behind Beca’s ear. “You’re just a lot more shy today, considering what we did last week.”

Beca laughs, a breathless sound, tilting her body slightly so she can face away from Chloe just enough to hide the blush rising on her face. She can hardly compartmentalize the sensation that flows through her then. The ease she feels with this interaction—Chloe is hardly somebody she would consider a confidante. More likely to be a liability if anything. A danger to herself if she were to ever get too wrapped up in Beca’s life.

The thought makes Beca swallow. Too much thinking about the future. Too much thinking about a guaranteed future with a woman she slept with once.

A woman with whom she is about to embark on a date.

A first date with somebody who has no idea who she is.

“Beca?” Chloe’s voice comes back into Beca’s depth. “If that _is_ your name. Beca Mitchell,” she drawls.

“Sorry, what?” Beca asks quickly.

“Nothing you just…got all quiet and shy. I was just kidding.” Chloe beams at her, holding out a hand. “Want to get going then?”

“Oh, um.” Beca smiles, reaching out to hold Chloe’s hand, resisting the urge to shiver at how warm and soft Chloe’s hand feels in her own. “Let’s. And yes, my name is Beca, you weirdo.”

“Are you okay with going to _Victor’s_?”

Beca blinks in surprise at the mention of one of the restaurants where her family frequently conducts business. “Oh, um—”

“I just heard it had good reviews, and it’s close.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been there. It’s fine.” Beca doesn’t think much of it. She hasn’t been there often enough and never really for _business_ in a high profile sense. She’s sure it’ll be a relatively easy-to-handle situation.

She’s on a _date_. She knows she isn’t working. She knows that her father knows that. But still, she misses what Chloe says in response, too focused on the logistics that have momentarily flooded her mind.

“Hey,” Chloe says quietly, stopping them in their tracks. She tugs on Beca’s hand expectantly. Beca swallows, looking up into Chloe’s eyes as Chloe is seemingly unaware of the people having to walk around them on the sidewalk, grumbling all the while. “I’m glad I get to see you again.”

Beca finds that she has only the urge to tell Chloe the truth—to be honest and open with this woman. It is different. Refreshing. “Me too,” she replies, smiling again when Chloe leans in to kiss her again, soft lips tender and gentle against her own.

* * * * *

Beca finds that she loves talking to Chloe—loves her company and her presence. That first morning together had been more of the same humorous banter. They had kind of gotten to know each other, but mostly Beca had basked in the comfort of Chloe’s presence and her touch.

(And more of some of the same activities that had brought them into Chloe’s bed in the first place, but that was just a bonus, Beca told herself.)

Tonight, however, is something more. Beca feels it. It had been what she had anticipated, with no small measure of nerves, when she had accepted Chloe’s text asking her on a date only a few days after they had gone their separate ways.

Tonight, together, they sit in the quiet corner of the restaurant, staying for hours until the lights dim and they realize that they’ve stayed until closing. Chloe turns to meet Beca’s bewildered expression and they both burst into quiet giggles as they quickly gather their belongings.

“That’s never happened to me before,” Chloe comments. “Staying until a restaurant has closed.” She flutters her eyelashes at Beca. “You’re a good date.”

Beca smiles, taking a moment to make sure her phone is in her pocket. As she does so, she notices one of the wait staff gesturing for her to go into the kitchen.

“I’ll be right back. Just going to the bathroom.” She pecks Chloe on the cheek, quickly making her way to the back of the restaurant. When she’s sure that Chloe isn’t looking, she ducks into the kitchen, brow already furrowed and her mouth set in a thin line. “This better be good,” she points out, clearly displeased.

The maître-d cowers under Beca’s gaze for a few seconds before she grows bored and turns her attention to the restaurant owner who, to his credit, walks right up to her without a care in the world. “Miss Mitchell—”

Beca’s jaw clenches. “Beca.”

He smirks at her. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, wishing more than anything she had something more than a switchblade on her. “Miss Mitchell, so kind of you to stop by our restaurant tonight.”

“I’m kind of busy, so if you could…” she motions with her finger. “Hurry up a little, that would be great.”

“Is that any way to talk to somebody who extended restaurant hours for you and your…” his eyes cut to the door with a knowing glint. “Your _friend_.”

“I’m not working tonight,” Beca says lowly in lieu of responding to the obvious bait. “What do you _want_?”

“Seems your associates left something behind the last time they passed through here. And shortchanged us on some money. When we agreed to help you, it was simply that—to _pass_ through.” He lifts a small package, carefully wrapped and tied in string. “We can’t have things like this here.”

Beca smirks. “Are you sure that wasn’t just one of your employees taking a little something for themselves?”

He presses the package into Beca’s arms before stepping back. “Send your father my regards—or maybe I can call him to let him know I saw you tonight?”

Beca swallows back the immediate rage she had felt when the package pressed into her arms roughly. She quickly tucks it into the waistband of her jeans, finding no pockets in her chosen sweater for the evening. Already, she feels the tension in her chest about to snap—a combination of anxiety and frustration with yet another business mishap. A business dealing that she can’t even address properly because Chloe is sitting alone at their table in an empty restaurant, simply waiting for Beca to return from the bathroom. Definitely not thinking about the package of questionable substances (drugs, Beca assumes dryly) tucked into her date’s jeans.

“I’m sure your _friend_ will understand if you…end the evening early. But we would be happy to help you find an escort to get her home.”

Beca’s heart races. She meets his gaze defiantly. A litany of words threatens to escape, nothing particularly appealing or fitting for the current situation. She steadies herself mentally, attempting to plaster a neutral expression on her face. She goes for calculated reasoning and an even tone, hedging a bet as to what exactly happened to have caused a mix-up at this level. “Next time,” she says, keeping her voice low. “If you ever try to steal from us again, at least make the effort to own up to it instead of chickening out. Trying to save your own ass like this?” She shrugs, making her way back to the kitchen entrance. “Not a good look,” she finishes, without looking back.

The short walk back to Chloe feels like a lifetime, but Beca makes it. She releases a breath she hadn’t known she was holding the moment Chloe turns to face her. Chloe, who is blessedly alone, stands and her eyes flash with concern. “I was about to go find you. Thought you slipped out the back or something.”

There is levity in Chloe’s voice, but Beca senses the underlying hesitation. The uncertainty. That same uncertainty is reflective of the sheer newness of...whatever this is and already Beca feels like she has done enough damage for one evening. For as big as Los Angeles is, she has come to know, through experience, that there is rarely anywhere to hide. “Sorry, just had some business to take care of,” she apologizes, offering a sheepish shrug to mask the momentary guilt and dread that had crept through her.

Chloe grins. “I mean. I didn’t ask. But thank you.”

Beca blushes even though she had totally said that with the intent of diverting Chloe’s attention while also going for _some_ honesty, though she’s sure Chloe doesn’t need to know about what happened in the kitchen. She doesn’t need Chloe to know about any of that.

“Shall we?” Beca asks, opting to change the subject instead.

“Okay,” Chloe agrees. She stands, reaching for Beca’s hand. The gesture and all its casual intimacy makes Beca swallow. She doesn’t dare look back to see if anybody is watching; she doesn’t dare look back to check if any unsavory eyes are focused on their actions. She is suddenly so aware of how empty the restaurant is, how they really are the only ones there. She just had become so distracted and enamored by her conversation with Chloe—the way her eyes had sparkled so beautifully under the gentle restaurant lighting.

Still, with Chloe’s hand in her own, Beca finds that she manages to remain stoic, ramrod straight back and all. Together, they leave the restaurant, Beca’s heart somewhere in her throat all the while.

“I...don’t want this night to end,” Chloe admits as they walk down the quiet street. Beca shifts her gaze from assessing the parked cars along the street to meet Chloe’s eyes.

“I don’t either,” Beca admits.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Didn’t you kiss me already?” Beca asks quickly with a twitch of her lips. Before she can even form a full smirk, Chloe’s hand comes up to cup the back of her head delicately and her lips descend on Beca’s. Softly, she kisses Beca, both of their eyes slipping shut at the sensation. Beca sighs quietly, reaching up to grip Chloe’s shoulders as she tilts her head to fully sink into the kiss. She tries to memorize the way Chloe kisses her. It is a mix of desire, tenderness, and newness all at once. There is nothing to memorize however, not quite yet, as Chloe’s technique shifts and changes seamlessly with each moment.

“Come back with me,” Chloe requests, pressing her fingertips more firmly against the back of Beca’s head. “Please,” she whispers, breath ghosting against Beca’s jaw. Beca whimpers quietly, lifting her chin to catch Chloe in another kiss, both of them sinking into the sensation. Beca feels her back hit the brick exterior of the nearby storefront. Chloe presses closer still, sliding a hand around Beca’s waist to hold her close. The action incites Beca’s back into arching so she presses more solidly against Chloe’s front, enjoying the sensation of their bodies slowly beginning to meld together so naturally. Beca reaches up to hold Chloe’s face, losing herself momentarily.

She is abruptly brought back to reality when she shifts her stance to nudge her leg between Chloe’s and the rough texture of the package still tucked into her jeans rubs harshly against her belly. She gasps, pushing Chloe back slightly, placing her hands against the collar of her jacket.

“Sorry,” Chloe says quickly, looking rather contrite. “I’m sorry, I just—I haven’t stopped thinking about—”

“No, no, um. Me too. It’s…” Beca gently nudges Chloe back further as she steps away from the wall. “It’s...I have to be somewhere tonight. See my dad.”

Chloe’s lips—already pink and swollen, sending a flash of desire through Beca’s body—curve downwards, but she nods in understanding. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes again. “I just thought…”

“No, I just...yeah. He called earlier and I should…” Beca blows out a breath, running her fingers through her hair. “I should...go. See him, I mean.”

Chloe smiles reassuringly, both of them relaxing as Chloe takes one of Beca’s hands off her jacket. She presses a slow kiss to Beca’s knuckles, sending a shiver down Beca’s spine. “It’s okay. I’m not really a...put-out-on-the-first-date kind of person anyway.”

That breaks the rest of the tension that had been lingering in Beca’s body and she has half a mind to say _fuck it_ to her father (not a new feeling) and all of this bullshit and just go home with Chloe. She laughs, pulling Chloe boldly in for another kiss, but stopping before they can go any further. “Well. I mean, something tells me that’s a lie.”

Chloe scoffs. “Please. That wasn’t a date. You were just a hot girl I met at a bar.”

Beca raises an eyebrow. “And now?” she asks, a twinge of curiosity seeping its way into her tone before she can help it.

“One of the best first dates I’ve been out with,” Chloe murmurs. “And I want to see you again.” Her eyes seem to shine even more than Beca had previously thought possible. “If that’s okay with you.”

Beca finds herself smiling—a smile that very nearly stretches her face uncomfortably because she cannot recall ever smiling that widely. At least not in recent memory. “That is...super okay with me.”

“Super okay,” Chloe echoes with a playful smile. The sight makes Beca’s stomach swoop, but at the same time, she is only reminded of the pressure against her belly from both the anxiety and weight (figurative and literal) of the package. “By the way?” Chloe chirps. “I would totally break that first date rule. Just saying. If we just forget all that bar nonsense.”

Beca groans. “Shut up,” she murmurs, though she does not mean it. She wouldn’t mind hearing Chloe laugh for the rest of the night, but she knows she cannot.

* * * * *

Beca’s good mood dissipates fairly quickly as she punches in the number to her father’s gated house. She trudges up the path, ignoring the greetings and acknowledgements from the guards she passes along the way.

By the time she reaches her father’s study, passing all the ornate decorative pieces lining the hallways along the way, she is clutching the nondescript package in her clenched fist. Without knocking, she pushes through the doors.

He barely glances up from his book. “Beca. What’d I say about knocking?”

“I forgot,” she says breezily. She tosses the package on the desk in front of him. “This is yours, I believe?”

He sighs, taking his time to earmark his book before he removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Such manners,” he mutters. He peers at the package, reaching out to turn it over delicately, noting the small writings along its edge. “Didn’t know I asked you to go to Victor’s today.”

“I was…” Beca pauses, choosing her words carefully. “I was just having dinner there. They recognized me.”

“Oh? Having dinner by yourself? How was the food?”

“Fine,” Beca murmurs quickly, avoiding the first question deftly. “I didn’t have to bring this back, you know? You need to pick better fronts,” she points out, daring to show defiance for just a few seconds. She’s kind of banking on her father still being in a good mood.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“No,” Beca responds quietly. Obediently. “It was just unexpected.”

“The price to pay when everybody wants a slice of the pie and we’re only just too willing to accommodate.”

Beca grimaces. She hates this aspect of their relationship. Whenever her father attempts to impress upon her the _nobility_ of what they do. Or the _respect_ they command. It makes her nauseous and ill to even entertain the thought of doing this for the rest of her life. She cannot envision it — not for herself and not for anybody she happens to be friends with.

Not that she has many friends. Less friends means less stakes in the long run.

“Anyway, that was all.”

“You should stay the night. I’ll have Beatrice make you up some breakfast tomorrow. It’s late anyway.” His eyes flash up at her. “Unless you have somewhere else you’d rather be?”

Beca schools her expression carefully as her mind quickly fills with images of fingertips trailing up her arm, down her side, across her tattoos. Delicate sighs. Desperate kisses.

Kind, bright blue eyes and a trusting expression.

“No,” she murmurs. “Nowhere.”

* * * * *

_“Was that okay?” Beca asks expectantly, searching her mother’s eyes for positive reassurance. “I got all the notes right.”_

_Her mother’s lips twitch though they still rest in a gentle smile. “My dear,” she says gently. “It’s not about just getting the notes right. Your hands and your heart need to be in concert with each other.”_

_Beca’s brow furrows, a pout gracing her lips. “In concert?” she echoes._

_Slowly, her mother takes Beca’s wrists and places her hands back on the piano. “Try again, but play from the heart. Nothing beautiful ever comes from following the rules.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://darby-carter.tumblr.com/). [Twitter](https://twitter.com/tizzleshizzle).


	3. wish i could take your hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks later. Beca has to work with an old acquaintance while her relationship with Chloe has flourished all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Gavin Haley and Ella Vos’ “The Way I Am”. Unbeta’d, sorry! (except for Chloe yelling at me this morning when she woke up and read the chapter)

“Are you sure you don’t want something else?”

Beca peers up at the staff waiting on her. It makes her feel simultaneously small and grandiose all at once. It was never something she got used to, even if she grew up in this very house, surrounded by many of the same people. She’s sure her family would like her to consider them her _friends_ , but she often feels more like a stranger than anything else.

“Miss Mitchell?”

“I’m—uh, no. It’s okay. I’m good with this.” She gestures at the measly oatmeal she has placed in front of her.

She catches the brief panic that flashes across his face, looking very much like he wants to insist on feeding her something more substantial.

“Um, but where is my dad? I was told he wanted to have breakfast together,” she grumbles. “After dragging me out of bed too.” She glances at him to see if she has managed to elicit a smile. Half a smile. A quarter.

Nothing. “Mr. Mitchell is in a meeting right now, but he will be with you shortly.”

Beca resists the impulse to roll her eyes and turns back to her food, uncaring that she has her jacket draped sloppily over the dining chair armrest or that her shirt is mildly rumpled, having just been picked from her dresser carelessly. Another thing she hates—being treated like another one of her father’s business associates. It’s often hard to believe they’re from the same bloodline at all. It’s hard to believe that he considers her his daughter at all.

“Did you need something?”

Beca pinches the bridge of her nose, annoyed. “No. Thanks.”

“I’ll...be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

Beca watches him go with a sigh. Her brooding is interrupted by a short buzz from her phone, resting on the table.

**Chloe Beale  
** _Dinner tonight?  
_ _Missed you last night <3_

_That_ puts her in better spirits. She immediately picks up her phone, spoon hanging loosely from her mouth, dumb smile on her face.

**Beca Mitchell  
** _Yesss please._  
_Missed you too.  
Sick of me yet??_

**Chloe Beale  
** _Never_

It is absolutely incredible how a simple text exchange manages to lift her spirits. She clicks her phone off, putting it on the table and returning to her breakfast.

“Beca Mitchell?”

She glances up. Beca flashes a tight smile at the young man now interrupting her breakfast. She chooses to spend as little time in her father’s house as possible, but he had arranged for a car to pick her up from her apartment that morning, which had been rather fortunate, considering that she had actually spent the night at her apartment for the first time in a few weeks.

She hates this game, however. Whenever her father’s associates pretend to not know who she is, or at least, feign politeness upon greeting her as if it is the first time they are meeting. The fact of the matter is, their business circles already aren’t necessarily the largest. It isn’t like she _doesn’t_ know who wants to talk to her.

“Good morning,” she greets politely, though she does not put her spoon down. Instead, she idly stirs her oatmeal, finding it infinitely more interesting than the man next to her. “On your way out?” she asks quickly. Pointedly.

“Yes, but it’s always a pleasure to see you. We really should talk about grabbing a bite.”

She had spared him a brief glance and once-over a few seconds ago, but she does not linger. In her mind, she categorizes everything she knows about him at first glance. Son of a wealthy contract with a lot of influence in L.A. and the surrounding area. Young—probably around her age. Mid-twenties. She supposes he isn’t _bad_ to look at. He just has the same hungry look in his eye, as do most young men whenever they’ve seemingly been promised an opportunity to talk to her.

She sighs, knowing that she’s going to have to annoy her father once more.

She hates this part the most. She hates being regarded as a piece of meat of some kind. People who didn’t know her, walking up to her and starting conversations. People _like her_ who barely understood what it meant to live a life of struggle. A life outside of privilege. And on top of that, she already _knows_ what he wants. He wants two things: first, probably to get into her pants, which. Gross. Second, he wants to talk up his company—his father’s company—until she wants to slice her own ears off. She knows the formula. She knows the formula _too_ well at this point. In the same way that her father is set in his ways, she figures that some things never change.

“I’ll have my people call your people,” Beca replies, quickly putting a spoon of oatmeal into her mouth so she can resist the peal of laughter that threatens to burst from her at the sight of his despondent expression. “Nice seeing you, Darren.”

“It’s Derek.”

She smirks, tapping her spoon against the table. “Oops.” He leaves in a huff. Beca, pleased by this reaction, contentedly rises from her seat and twists, bowl in hand only to see—“Jesse?”

Jesse Swanson, in all his smug glory and leaning against the arch opening into the living room, is quite possibly the last person Beca wants to see at the moment, but she draws comfort from the fact that he is, at least somebody she can moderately trust. Which is a lot more than she can say for ninety-nine percent of the people her father brings into his home.

“Happy to see me, Beca?”

“Not particularly, no. You only roll into town whenever there’s a huge shipment coming in.”

“Look at us,” Jesse drawls, moving closer. “Back together again. And you haven’t changed. What’s it been? Two years? Three?”

“Three since I rejected you at university, I believe,” Beca says, tapping her chin slowly. “Time passes when you’re having fun.”

“He was into you,” Jesse comments. “Totally into you. It was like watching a trainwreck, watching him flirt with you.”

Beca scoffs. “Was that what that was? Was I supposed to be impressed with that?” She sighs, finally close enough to slug Jesse in the shoulder. “How have you been? How’s the girlfriend?”

“Beca,” he pouts. “You know my heart only beats for you.”

Beca grimaces, shoving him out of the way as she goes. _That,_ she hates. She hates that Jesse, for whatever reason, still holds some kind of torch for her. It had started as an early attempt at an arranged...something...between their families. Jesse’s family, one of the biggest shareholders at Los Angeles Port had been highly interested (read: invested) in a potential romance between their only son and the only daughter and heir to the Mitchell fortune.

It was a match made in hypothetical heaven.

It was just that...Beca couldn’t bring herself to muster feelings for Jesse. He was too much, too forceful about their relationship, and too _into_ her at the time. It was all more than she could handle when she had already been coerced into getting a degree.

On top of that, it left a bad taste in her mouth knowing that it would have been yet another thing tying her to this shitshow of a lifestyle.

And, though she would never really admit it to her family, it was the fact that Jesse was...Jesse. They had grown up together. They had trained in martial arts together. They had overseen incredibly illegal trades together.

She just couldn’t take him seriously as a romantic prospect, despite never having had experience dating many people to begin with.

So...yes. It bothers her that her father is _still_ trying to force this upon her, even years later. She knows it’s his way of attempting to seal their relationship in the same way he always does—like a puppetmaster behind the scenes.

The thought enrages her enough that she shoves through her father’s study doors. “No,” she announces boldly, ignoring Jesse’s stammering behind her.

“Beca, good morning to you too. I’ll overlook your disregard for rules and inability to knock when requested.”

“Dude,” Jesse hisses to her. “Mr. Mitchell,” he announces. “You wanted to see me? Um.” He shifts closer to Beca, whether for protection or something else, she doesn’t want to find out and steps away. “Us,” he corrects.

“Yes, thank you, Jesse. And please, what’s with this Mr. Mitchell nonsense.” To Beca’s immense surprise, her father stands and moves from behind his incredibly unnecessary and large antique desk. He moves to pat Jesse jovially on the shoulder. “You’re practically family.”

Beca clenches her jaw, watching the exchange. She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until her father stops in front of her. He cups her cheek, smiling at her with something akin to tenderness. Or perhaps an impression of it, as if he had seen it once in a movie. “Always nice to see you, my dear,” he says. “You never really stop by much anymore unless it’s to get irritated about something entirely out of our control.”

_I want to be out of your control._

The thought passes by so fleetingly that she almost doesn’t catch it, but she does. She catches it and holds on to it, letting herself drift along with it for a few short moments as her father returns to his perch behind the ornate desk.

Beca hates that desk.

“I need you two to supervise a shipment coming in tonight. Jesse, your parents will have the exact drop-off point at the port.”

Beca hates stake-outs more than that desk. She holds her tongue, merely nodding as her father gives directions. “It might take all night.”

At that, her head lifts. “All night?” she questions.

“Yes.” He places his hands on the table. “Is that a problem, Beca?”

She senses that Jesse shifts next to her. The air seems to grow still around them as her father awaits her response.

“No,” she murmurs, finally, thinking only of Chloe and the text she’ll have to send. “Not a problem.”

“Good. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

She hates that he looks directly at her.

* * * * *

_“Rebecca! Get in here!”_

_Beca startles, nearly dropping her walkman on the ground as her father’s booming voice echoes from his study, down the ominous hallway she hates walking through._

_He had full-named her. She can’t imagine what horror awaits her. Desperately, she tries to wrack her brain for something she might have done or not done._

_She rushes, wincing as she bumps into a chair along the way. The pain burns through her and she pauses, momentarily stricken by how hard the chair had resisted against her movement._

_“BECA!”_

_“Coming!” she calls back, wincing at the tremor in her own voice._

_She knocks quietly on the study door, noting that it stands slightly open._

_“Enter.”_

_Beca enters, still clutching her walkman as something comforting to hold on to at this point. “You wanted to see me?” she asks._

_“You want to explain this?” He points at a paper on his desk, not even bothering to look up at her. For that, she’s grateful, unable to explain why she fears her father so much...especially whenever he looks her in the eyes._

_She approaches the desk, unable to see what it is exactly. When she is close enough, she sees her school emblem atop the paper and her eyes widen, knowing it must be her report card for the semester._

_“What is it?” she asks. “What do you want me to—”_

_“Don’t be smart with me now, Beca. Look at this. A B? Another B? A B-?”_

_“It—it…” She wants to explain that it had been hard, switching schools again in the middle of the semester. It had been hard to make friends, but she was trying. She was trying to fit in and she genuinely did like school. She liked the people she had managed to become friends with. She liked her teachers. She loved music class._

_“Are you stupid?”_

_Beca’s face grows hot. She feels like she might cry. “No,” she murmurs._

_“No, you are not. Because you are a Mitchell. And we don’t fail.”_

_“I—”_

_His eyes zero in on her walkman, still pressed against her chest. “Give me that.”_

_She whimpers. “Please, daddy—”_

_He stands, chair pushing back roughly. She wills herself to stand still at the sound. His previous instructions echo around her mind erratically. Stand still. Back straight. Shoulders back._

_Stand like you mean it._

_He snatches the walkman from her. “This is a horrible distraction. You need real education.”_

_She barely has time to protest, words dying on her throat, when her father drops the walkman on the floor and crushes it under the heel of his foot._

_“Do you see this?” he demands over her sudden, erratic sobs. “This is what happens to failure in this house. We don’t accept it. This is what we do to people who put our futures in jeopardy.”_

_“I’m—I’m sorry,” Beca cries, hands coming up to her face. She feels such shame for crying in front of her father, knowing that he must think so lowly of her._

_“Apologies won’t bring that back,” he says, pointing at her walkman. “Apologies won’t fix your grades.”_

_“What—” her mother bursts into the room, taking in the scene before her: Beca, shoulders hunched as she cries, smashed walkman on the ground, CD and all. “What’s going on in here?”_

_“Some lessons need to be taught. Did you see the grades from that school you wanted to put her in?”_

_“She’s seven!” her mother cries, pulling Beca tight against her. Beca continues to cry, pressing her face against her mother’s shoulder. Her mother’s hand presses tight against the back of her head, a comforting grip. “She’s seven, she’s trying!”_

_“Public school was a mistake. This was your idea, Sofia. Don’t think I've forgotten.”_

_“And you agreed. She needs the socialization, Enzo. She needs to meet people her age and grow.”_

_“She can get that just fine here. With private tutors. She needs to be homeschooled so she can—”_

_“No. I don’t want to talk about this right now. Look at her. You made our baby cry.”_

_Beca doesn’t hear her father’s response, too distracted by the warmth of her mother’s hold and the beating of her heart beneath her ear._

* * * * *

Beca checks her phone for the millionth time. She sees nothing out of the ordinary in Chloe’s goodnight text. They had agreed to postpone their dinner date to brunch the next day, but God, the disappointment Beca feels is unparalleled. She had been looking forward to curling up in Chloe’s arms, drifting off to sleep in Chloe’s bed. She had been looking forward to Chloe’s attempt at cooking dinner. She had been looking forward to it all.

“You seem agitated tonight.” Jesse watches her carefully. “Hot date that you’re missing out on tonight?”

“Why would you automatically assume that the only reason I wouldn’t want to spend time with you is that I have other plans?”

“Oh you wound me as always, Beca.”

“Just. Focus, okay? Let’s just get this done.” She wraps her jacket around herself tighter, wondering why, of all nights, Los Angeles decided to be abnormally chilly. The chill seems to seep into her bones.

“You’re not that into this, huh?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This whole...thing. Being here.”

“Jesse, it’s not about you.”

“I’m not talking about _me_. I’m talking about this life. This charmed life we live. Waiting for a shipment of questionable materials and making sure nobody steals from us because God forbid that we become _less_ rich. That whole life. But it’s just...this is pretty much it for us, you know? Mess up once and that’s the end of the line.”

Beca is silent, contemplating the breadth of Jesse’s words. She’s sure he isn’t necessarily baiting her into saying anything, but she is still wary of responding too affirmatively, lest he take that information and use it to his own advantage.

But it’s _Jesse_ —he has been fairly mellow over the period of time that they have known each other. He has been somewhat kind, somewhat understanding. He seemed fairly hands-off in terms of his own parents’ business, similar to Beca’s own disdain for this lifestyle.

“So...that’s why…” Jesse sighs. “Who is it? Do I know him?”

Beca blinks, refocusing on the horizon. The water looks especially daunting at this time of day. Rippling calm. Moon glinting off the surface. Blackness. Darkness.

_This is pretty much it for us, you know?_

“It’s nobody,” she finally responds. “It’s nothing.”

* * * * *

She ends up leaving the stake-out early, under Jesse’s reassurance that he would handle it.

Beca doesn’t mean to arrive at Chloe’s apartment, but her feet moved her automatically. She checks the time, noting that it isn’t too ridiculously late for a Friday night. A small smile graces her lips at the memory of how she had met Chloe on a random Friday night. Now, three and a half weeks later, and she’s dating this woman, murky future in sight, but a future nonetheless.

She reaches up to knock, but hesitates.

 _It’s too soon for you to be showing up this late. Too soon—she doesn’t want to see you_.

Her own thoughts knock the wind out of her; she knows that this level of self-doubt is unwarranted considering that she and Chloe have been moving fairly steadily along over the past month. A month and Beca’s feelings have only developed further, growing along the way.

She bites her lip, hesitating. She has no reason to believe that Chloe doesn’t feel the same way. Chloe, who is incredibly open and genuine. She wears her emotions for all to see.

Now, her father’s voice, chiming in: _the lack of self-preservation. Remember that emotion is a weapon and a curse. Depends on how you use it._

 _But,_ Beca thinks. _Is it so bad to be wanted?_

**Beca Mitchell  
** _Hey_  
_Are you awake?_

The briefest moment of radio silence, but it’s enough to send Beca’s fingers back to the keyboard as she makes her way back down the apartment hallway. She is about to type out _nevermind_ when Chloe texts her back.

**Chloe Beale  
** _yeah, what’s up?_

**Beca Mitchell  
** _would you mind opening your door?_

**Chloe Beale  
** _:O :O :O_  
_beca mitchell!  
yes! coming!_

Beca barely has time to suck in a relieved breath when Chloe’s apartment door flies open and Chloe herself is leaping onto Beca’s back with a delighted squeal.

“You made it!”

“You’re not mad I came so late?” Beca asks, lifting her hand and curling it around Chloe’s forearm. Chloe’s hug tightens momentarily before she loosens up enough to let Beca spin in her arms. Lazily, she drapes her arms over Beca’s shoulders, kissing her right in the middle of the hallway, without a care in the world.

“I’m just glad you came, Bec.”

The nickname, still as jarring as it was when Chloe first used it, somehow warms Beca’s heart. She finds comfort in it; she finds comfort in how out of left-field it feels. And beyond that, beyond the nickname, she finds comfort in Chloe’s sincerity.

“I’m late,” Beca repeats, wonder creeping into her tone.

“I don’t care.”

“Really?” Beca asks, unsure why she is fixating on this one little instance. This one moment between them in their new, budding relationship. Everything between them is passion and desire, but also an undercurrent of something incredibly deep. She pulls on Chloe’s hips, having only just a moment of clarity which she finds in Chloe’s blue eyes before Chloe’s lips collide into her own. Like the softest of blows, Chloe’s kiss knocks the wind out of her.

But, as Chloe has proven over and over in just a short period of time, Chloe catches her. She holds Beca close, deepening the kiss only slightly with the intent of inflicting passion and nothing more. Gently, her lips move against Beca’s—a greeting to surpass all greetings—as a hello.

_Hello, you’re here. I’m happy to see you._

That and nothing more.

“Stay the night?” Chloe asks, breathless as she tilts her forehead to press against Beca’s.

“I would love to. But, um. I should definitely shower first.”

* * * * *

Beca had been tired, but she can’t think of anything else now with water dripping down her forehead and nose. The steam is almost overpowering, but her gasps have nothing to do with steam. She gasps, loudly and wantonly, because Chloe’s tongue is doing sinful things between her legs. She wants to grab something other than Chloe’s hair, but she knows that she can’t for fear of breaking something in Chloe’s shower.

Chloe’s tongue flicks out expertly against her clit, bullying it gently and stimulating it, pushing Beca’s sensitivity to its limits. Again and again, she flicks, occasionally sucking at whatever her mouth can reach. Chloe’s movements are almost lazy, with how sluggishly her hands scrape up and down Beca’s thighs, sending fresh waves of tingles across Beca’s skin.

With each pass of Chloe’s lips and tongue through and around her cunt, Beca trembles, shaking off every last moment from the day she just had. “Fuck...Chloe…” She tapers off into a broken-off moan when Chloe sucks on clit rather harshly. Her mouth falls open and her head tilts back, smacking against the hard tile behind her. The sensation is lost soon enough however, when Chloe draws away, sliding up Beca’s body. Chloe is panting herself when she comes face to face with Beca. Their lips collide, messy and sloppy in technique, but rife with desire and lust. Beca clutches onto Chloe’s shoulders with her remaining strength, attempting to keep up with how desperately Chloe’s tongue moves inside her mouth.

Shower all but forgotten, Chloe’s fingers navigate between her thighs. “I want to feel you like this,” Chloe murmurs. She nips a line down Beca’s jaw. “Feel you around my fingers.” She sucks at the spot she knows drives Beca crazy, unrelenting as two fingers slip inside her dripping pussy.

Beca moans, giving Chloe the sounds she enjoys most. She tenses, tight around Chloe’s fingers, attempting to draw in her girlfriend’s fingers further. They fit so well together, Chloe’s fingers pressed tightly inside her, Beca’s hands holding tightly to Chloe’s shoulders.

“Harder,” Beca breathes, clutching Chloe’s head to her chest. “Fuck, Chloe. _Harder_.”

Chloe whimpers at her words, lifting her head to press a kiss to Beca’s mouth as best as she can. “I’m—I just want—” She moans, moving her fingers in and out of Beca. “To take care of you, fuck—” She shudders, pressing herself more firmly against Beca’s thigh, wedged as best as she can against Chloe’s cunt. Her thrusts increase in intensity, both of them doing their best to maintain an upright position.

 _You are_ , Beca wants to say. She can do nothing more than cry out, pulling at Chloe’s hair as she finally comes, falling apart in Chloe’s arms.

* * * * *

The phone buzzes obnoxiously.

“Who is it?” Chloe asks sleepily. She moves as if to rise from the bed to retrieve their phones. Beca groans, pulling Chloe back into their comfortable cocoon-slash-duvet. “But—”

Beca could care less about who it is. All she knows is that she wants Chloe wrapped around her in more ways than one, but she’ll settle for _at least_ cuddling at the bare minimum. Naked cuddling, on top of that.

“You’re so clingy tonight,” Chloe observes, but she does not sound upset about it. Instead, she sighs, wrapping her arms around Beca’s shoulders and nestling even closer. “And _warm_ ,” she adds happily. “Awesome.”

Beca hums, distracted by the soft curves of Chloe’s body. She presses her lips against Chloe’s collarbones—a kiss on each side—before she begins lazily kissing the column of her neck. Chloe shivers against her, though her arm tenses around her shoulders, tightening her hold.

“Again?” Chloe murmurs. She uses her free hand to trace the curve of Beca’s cheek and the line of her jaw. “You’re insatiable.”

Beca doesn’t bother arguing. She just tilts her head back so Chloe can see her face and she smirks for good measure, knowing that Chloe will cave soon enough.

On her phone—three missed calls: Jesse Swanson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought!
> 
> As always, come visit me on [Tumblr](http://darby-carter.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/tizzleshizzle)!


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